The Heart Has Its Reasons (26 page)

“Yes, there is another: the twentieth, San Rafael Arcangel. Founded in 1817 by Father Vicente de Sarria.”

“I'm impressed,” he said with a laugh. “What have you been doing since I last saw you, getting a PhD in missions?”

“Basic research, what you suggested.”

“Is that how you were taught to do research at the Complutense University of Madrid?”

“No,” I answered categorically. “This way of working I've learned all on my own, chipping away at stone for years. Okay, then, call when you get back. And thanks for offering to come with me.”

I climbed the stairs to my apartment feeling that something was a bit off, but I was unable to identify what it was. Something in the last part of our conversation. I already had the key in the lock when I realized it. I ran down the stairs and onto the street as he was driving away.

“Daniel!”

He jammed on the brakes after having gone a couple of yards and rolled down the window.

“How do you know I studied in the Complutense?” I yelled.

He answered from behind the wheel, in the same manner I had addressed him: at the top of his lungs.

“I guess I just imagined so. Fontana studied there. And so did I for a while, when it was still called Universidad Central. And other dear people that I met in Spain. I probably put you in the same boat without realizing it.”

Chapter 23

P
rofessor Cabeza de Vaca was seated at his walnut desk, waiting for Daniel as if nothing had happened between his last visit and this one. His appearance was, as always, meticulous. The thick curtains of his office kept out the morning light, and the inkstand and ivory crucifix occupied their customary places, in perfect harmony.

“Well, young man, I'm happy to finally have you back,” he said, holding out his hand without moving from his armchair. “It's already mid-February and I've not heard from you since before Christmas. I imagine that your incursion into the old Canton must have been an intense experience.”

Despite his effort to give an update, not one single image came into Daniel's mind of the literary settings that he'd gone in search of and never found. Instead there appeared a prolonged sequence of images and sensations: Aurora's face, Aurora's eyes, Aurora's smell. Her infinite tenderness, her hearty laughter, her voice.

“Intense, sir, indeed,” he finally was able to mutter after clearing his throat. “A very intense experience.”

“I imagine, then, that you've returned to Madrid with a profound knowledge of the geographic background of Sender's novel.”

He assented without words. He lied, of course. He had hardly
glanced at the settings of
Mister Witt en el Cant
o
n
. Instead, he'd ventured to explore the territory of the woman who'd captivated him there. The tiny scar on her cheekbone, the softness of her lips, and those four beauty marks right next to her hairline. The gentleness of her fingers as she caressed him and the taste of the sea in Madrid—hundreds of miles from any coast—eternally present on her skin.

“I also imagine that you must have familiarized yourself with the historical events that are mentioned in the book.”

Again he assented; again he lied. The only events of relevance that had stuck in his memory were those that had to do with Aurora. That first encounter in her father's pharmacy while she tried to put her disheveled hair in order. His stealthy pursuit of her, feverishly refusing to lose her. The encounter in the middle of the street the next day, not knowing what to do or say. His bitterness over the feast of the Three Wise Men, when he rashly imagined what wasn't true. That long train journey in which they began to know each other, the beginning of all that was to come afterwards.

“And likewise I imagine,” Cabeza de Vaca continued, oblivious to the thoughts that assailed the American's mind, “that you have already written a preliminary report regarding your thoughts and findings.”

Daniel's response this time was to clear his throat. Unable to continue lying, Daniel murmured something unintelligible.

“I don't understand what you're saying, Carter. Speak clearly, please.”

“That I've been unable to do it, sir.”

“What is it you haven't been able to do? To find relevant information for your work or to write the pertinent report?”

“Neither of the two.”

Cabeza de Vaca showed his surprise with a stern yet subtle puckering of one side of the mouth.

“Would you be so kind, if it isn't an inconvenience, to explain the reason?”

Daniel cleared his throat once more.

“Personal matters.”

“How personal?”

“Extremely personal, sir.”

His endless waits at the entrance to the school of pharmacy, craving to see her race down the steps in her half-buttoned coat, her arms loaded with books. The calls at ungodly hours to share trivial things. The long, hidden kisses in half-lit corners. The countless walks, hand in hand, along Madrid's streets as they tried to teach each other their respective languages. Aurora to him: science and laboratory terms, everyday expressions and words to describe family, childhood, the schoolyard. Daniel: simple nouns, verbs, and basic adjectives in her first steps toward English. Aurora is beautiful, Aurora is gorgeous. I love Aurora from morning until night.

How to explain all this to the scrupulous philologist? How could that helpless medievalist, lost in his world of codices and scrolls, understand the distressing cold he felt inside each time he walked alone kicking stones beneath the streetlamps after dropping Aurora off at her dorm at ten? How could he know the way he felt night after night locked up in the concierge's room, lying in his patched-up bed, imagining her long-boned body, her smoothness, her warmth?

Now it was the professor's turn to clear his throat, followed by a question.

“Might we be speaking of a lady, perhaps?”

Powerless before the inevitable, Daniel nodded.

“Homo sine amore vivere nequit . . .”

“Excuse me?”

“Man, Carter, cannot live without love. And less so in a foreign land.”

“I . . . well, the truth is that—”

“Don't bother explaining, I have no intention of prying into your private life. But if you'll allow me, I'd like to give you a piece of advice.”

Daniel did not expect a caustic admonishment; it wasn't Cabeza de Vaca's style. He expected something more along the lines of: Remember that you've incurred responsibilities and duties—that the purpose of the Fulbright grant that you are enjoying is to finance an academic project, not a love affair. Both Professor Fontana and I have placed our
utmost trust in you, so you should devote yourself to your career. Forget about romance and concentrate on your work.

However, such words did not spring forth from the mouth of the old monarchist soldier.

“But first I have a few questions. With your hand on your heart, are you convinced that it's not a bird of passage?”

“Do you mean ‘bird' as in ‘fowl'?” Daniel asked, confused.

“I'm afraid your metaphoric sensibility is not too sharp today, young man. Allow me to reformulate the question in other words: are you sure that this is not a mere transitory rapture?”

“I'm afraid I don't understand, sir,” he admitted, without being able to hide his embarrassment. “Rapture, did you say?”

“I'm inquiring whether there is truly on your part a willingness to commit, an unbending desire to jointly overcome the misfortunes that life throws your way, which, keeping your particular circumstances in mind—and if you'll allow me to be totally frank, I anticipate it will be quite a few . . .”

Daniel stirred uncomfortably in his chair, and the professor decided to cut straight to the chase.

“For you to understand once and for all, young man: are you sure that this is the love of your life?”

Finally Daniel understood, and did not hesitate.

“A hundred percent, sir.”

“Well, then, my friend, don't let her escape.”

Minutes later, leaning on his crutch by the window, Cabeza de Vaca saw them kiss and then go off with the carefree stride of those immune to anything beyond the periphery of their feelings. Her arm tightly around his waist, his around her shoulders, half-hidden by her disheveled mane, pulling her close to him. The old professor imagined that they were speaking nonstop, getting up to speed on what had just transpired in his office.

Cabeza de Vaca knew full well how fleeting happiness was, the brutal simplicity with which the claws of destiny are capable of wiping out everything we erroneously believe established. And still, he would give his only good leg to feel in his soul again that grandiose, confident sensation of falling in love.

Between classrooms and caresses, test tubes and libraries, spring finally bloomed before Daniel Carter and Aurora Carranza. At the same time, almost without his realizing it, he opened his eyes to that American passionate about Spain, its literary heritage, and a woman, and the helpless, melancholic medievalist poked his head out of his cave. And he saw there was light outside. That the world moved on, that wounds healed, that people loved each other.

The Holy Week holidays came around and Aurora, inevitably, had to return home. They said good-bye at the same Atocha station platform that had received them three months earlier. This time an eleven-day separation awaited them. “I'll miss you,” “Me more,” “No, me,” “Think of me,” “You too,” “I'm already thinking of you . . .”

As a precautionary measure Daniel made the firm commitment to take full advantage of the coming days. Since his February meeting with Cabeza de Vaca, he had decided to focus once again on his studies. And he had managed, with Aurora always close by and his love for her intact; he'd been capable of resuming his work at a good pace. Until she left and his plans came crumbling down as soon as he felt her absence. On his third day without her, he lost all interest in everything. He hadn't anticipated how much he was going to miss her. He chose to stay home, longing for her painfully, as if short of air. Waiting for a call or a letter, altogether impossible given her recent departure. And contemplating the future.

“But what's the matter with you, dear boy, tormented like a lost, wandering soul, moving here and there all day long?”

The widow's question oozed with maternal anxiety. While she cooked she could hear Daniel coming in and out of his room constantly, incapable of reading more than ten minutes straight. While she ironed, she could see him sullenly pacing the room like a caged lion, grumbling, moving things about without rhyme or reason. First thing in the morning he'd take off to go for a run on the University City track, a practice from his Pittsburgh days that he'd taken up again once settled in Madrid. In the early afternoon, he'd head to the Café Viena to have a coffee with a drop of milk. The rest of the day he was unable to concentrate on anything beyond the thoughts that plagued his mind.

“It's because of that girl you've been buzzing about with since after the Christmas holidays, right? The long, skinny blonde with a blue coat who I finally saw you with last week on Calle Altamirano?” she asked as she sprinkled a few drops of water on one of his shirts.

“Do you think she'll come with me to America when it's time for me to leave?” he asked point-blank.

No, son, was what she was about to tell him: not even an idiot would think so. But before opening her mouth, she put down the iron and looked at him closely.

He had taken a tangerine from the earthenware fruit bowl that dominated the dining room's brazier table and was slowly peeling it, his eyes on the ground and his hair falling over his face, concentrating on stripping the rough skin as if beneath it he'd find relief for his suffering. Such a good handsome young man, a foreigner but yet close to her heart, the widow thought. With a stature that made everything in the place look too small for him. With that accent and that outlook on life that she found both strange and tender.

“Head over heels,” the widow said, sitting in front of him.

“What?”

“You've fallen in love head over heels, child.”

“I guess so.”

“And you're busy calculating the time left for you to return to your country and the numbers don't add up.”

“Less than three months, that is the time left.”

The faded portrait of Antonia's wedding with the deceased Marcelino and the reproduction of a Julio Romero de Torres painting on the calendar month of March stared down at him from the wall as usual.

“Because I'm wondering, even if you'd wish, you couldn't just stick around for her,” the widow said, measuring her words.

“And do what? How could I earn a living in this country? What kind of future would I have? At the most I could teach English, but no one here is interested in a foreign language unless it's French,” he said without lifting his eyes from another tangerine. He'd already peeled four and hadn't eaten a single one. “But if she consented to come with me, then, perhaps . . .”

She shook her head slowly in a gesture of resignation, sighed, and then clutched his hand above the crocheted tablecloth.

“You haven't understood, Daniel. Son, you still don't get it.”

“Get what?”

“That it doesn't matter if the girl wants to go with you or stay here,” the widow said, pressing his wrist tightly. “Here she has no say about what she wants or doesn't want.”

“But—”

“Either you get to the altar before you go, kid, or there's nothing to be done.”

Chapter 24

H
oly Tuesday, noon. Time to return home for the midday meal. Three bodies advanced toward the Paseo de la Muralla in Cartagena after having an aperitif in the Mastia Bar, talking among themselves about trifles with all the natural excitement of a family gathered for the holidays. Until she saw him. Leaning on the balustrade with his back to the sea, waiting for her. Confused, bewildered almost, she excused herself from her parents.